


Broken China

by allsovacant



Series: The Things We Never Did [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mentions of Suicide, Moving On, Pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 20:09:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14722799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant





	Broken China

Rain had once again graced the freshly cut grass on their lawn—Making Mycroft’s thoughts as cloudy as the sky.

 _Carbon Monoxide poisoning_. Suicide. 

He walked away from the tall window from where he was standing and reached out across his table and rang the bell. 

Cowardice. But he couldn’t really judge Sherlock. It takes real courage to take your own life. And just by knowing what his younger brother had been through, he could almost feel like taking his own life too. But he remained, because for Sherlock, he would go through all the pain and even if that included losing him. Mycroft closed his eyes as tears threatened to escape from it.

A moment passed, the door opened and his butler came.

“I insist not to be disturbed for an hour, Sebastian.” He said as opened his eyes.  
“Certainly sir.” Sebastian said, “Would you like some tea… Sir? His butler added.  
“Yes. That would be—“, He sighed, “Marvelous.”  
His butler bowed and left the room shutting the door quietly.

The moment the door closed, Mycroft sat on his armchair, pulled open the drawer of his table and put out a medium sized planner—if his younger brother Sherlock, had his Mind Palace, Mycroft have his Book of Memoirs—not the same as the memory technique but he does list events, meetings; personal and business, occasions, and occasional conversations that he needed and of importance to him and his career. The planner was usually locked in, in his vault. But for some reason, that was yet unknown to him, at the time—he found himself writing an entry for, one can say, an unusual morning that had happened earlier and was to be considered… a rare event—in which his younger brother, Sherlock, joined him for a tea.

Mycroft scanned the soft pages of his entry with his cursive writing as his mind drifted to what had happened that morning—

##

Mycroft watched as Sherlock unceremoniously slumped on the opposite chair across the table in front of him.  
He regarded him with a blank stare, as usual.  
_“Oh please, Mycroft, it’s hardly a revelation that I can tolerate your presence just for a few minutes—you know I can make—“,_ Mycroft watched intently as Sherlock swallowed before continuing his banter. _“—exceptions.”_ With that, he knew something was up. He raised an eyebrow and greeted Sherlock as usual. _“Good Morning to you too, brother mine.”_  
Sherlock’s lip quirked. He watched as his brother poured himself a cup of tea.  
_“To what do I honor your presence at this hour? You hardly wake up this early and even—have a tea with me.”_ He gestured toward the tea cups. _”And what more? Having a tea? Have you awaken on the wrong side of the bed?”_  
His brother huffed in response that almost made Mycroft smile. If he’s not only keeping that strict expression on his face.

Mycroft was fourteen and Sherlock was nine, when they were orphaned. He became Sherlock’s guardian more than a brother. With a help of a few relatives, he admits to himself that he’s been strict to Sherlock and kept an eye on him as much as he can. Every place his brother goes to, ever since he was forced to be the one with the responsibility and the authority over Sherlock’s life; he just have to. He have to know everything—everything about Sherlock. To his relief, Sherlock hadn’t gone far away from him before—school, park, library, and the Manor. Time passed and it became, university, club, and some places he thought Sherlock wouldn’t have gone to—but mostly, his brother spends almost all day at St. Bart’s Hospital and the NSY. At the age of fourteen Mycroft held his head high and has been the one to attend events and occasions alone—because gatherings, wasn’t just Sherlock’s thing ever since when their parents died. When they were children, Sherlock was the star in every gathering, he plays the violin—while Mycroft was too busy to study for the piano—Sherlock observes their relatives with his little funny deductions that almost got out of hand when he deduced Uncle Hennessey’s love affair with his maid—but Mycroft being Mycroft, prevented the worst from happening earning him of Sherlock’s silent treatment. Just like right now, Sherlock remained silent as he munch his biscuits and sip his tea. 

Mycroft cleared his throat exaggeratedly that got his brother’s attention.  
He raised an eyebrow when Sherlock looked at him, _“Spit it out.”_  
_“What? The biscuit?”_ Mycroft rolled his eyes in response.  
His brother cleared his throat before speaking, _“I know Mycroft—Even I have no idea why am I tolerating your presence. But it’s just for a few minutes anyway, I’m going over at Bart’s. I need to…”_ His brother paused for a moment as if searching for the right word— _“I have to do… something.”_  
He watched as Sherlock sip his tea and threw a glanced at him.  
He cleared his throat and looked towards Sherlock. _“You know—if it helps, even about tedious things.”_  
_“You can tell me.”_ Right there and then he noticed something cross at Sherlock’s eyes, something that spoke of vulnerability but it faded so quickly before he could react.  
His brother hummed and stood up, _“Oh. Isn’t it the time already—“,_ Sherlock paused and looked at his watch then at Mycroft. _“Seven… Seven in the morning—Right.”_  
Mycroft moved his chair backward and folded the napkin on his lap. He watched as Sherlock straightened his sleeves and dramatically wore his coat and his scarf and walked towards the door.  
_“William,”_ he called.  
Sherlock turned to him, chin up, and certainly surprised at the mention of his first name.  
_“It is a great morning—“_ Mycroft gestured at the table with their tea cups in it. _“And tea.”_  
He watched as Sherlock ruffled his own messy curls. Mycroft felt something unexplainable that hit his chest as he heard Sherlock’s reply, _“Indeed, Mycroft. And having it with you—this… last time.”_  
The last two words came as a whisper making him frown. Then, Sherlock smiled at him. A genuine smile. Suddenly, a flashback of memories when Sherlock smiled passed before his eyes—that smile he saw when Sherlock got his violin, when Sherlock had Redbeard, when Sherlock was seven years old and went home running to him showing him the mark of stars and a hundred percent stamped on his test paper, before showing it to their parents. That genuine smile Mycroft last saw, when he retreated to his room, and Sherlock went out to the lawn holding the tea tray—the frozen smile turned to a painful sob—Mycroft found him hugging someone’s feet, hanging from a branch of a tree—that turned out to be their Mummy.  
_“Goodbye—brother mine,”_ He then heard the door shut quietly, leaving him on that moment. And if only—if only Mycroft knew what was to happen—No—If ONLY he could turn back the time.

##

The news of Sherlock’s death reached Mycroft at seven-o’-five in the evening. The call came from the emergency hotline of St. Bart’s Hospital—well, almost—if the woman behind the phone had spoken clearly but all he could hear were broken sobs. Thus, he cut the call before he hears another word after the broken pronunciation of Sherlock’s name and the word that have hunted his days ever since their parents died.. _“dead…”_

He turned off his phone, walked and almost ran, and made it towards the door when a knock came. He almost smiled to the idea that it was Sherlock, but that idea was crushed by the look on his butler’s face as he opened the door.

“Master Mycroft—Master Sherlock has,“ the butler’s lips quivered and cleared his throat before speaking again—and with a broken voice he said, “M-Master Sherlock, has p-passed away… Sir. It was a s-suicide.”

Mycroft felt everything around him stopped. Nobody’s moving, and it’s like nobody’s breathing. 

Sherlock would’ve loved it— _Would…have?_

He swallowed and reached slowly for a teacup towards his table. His body stiff and his ears gone deaf. He managed to pour himself a tea but when he tried to lift the cup it slipped through his finger and fell on the uncarpeted floor by the door. As if the crashing sound was the switch—the maid’s sobs and his butler’s sniffs finally reached his ear.  
Mycroft stared at the broken china of Sherlock in front of him as he gave the commands on his household. And as the doors finally closed, the first teardrops fell one after another.

##

A knock came on the door and Sebastian showed up with a tea tray.  
He laid the tray on the table and poured Mycroft a tea on his cup. “Master Mycroft, your tea Sir.”  
“Thank you, Sebastian.”  
He took the cup and sipped slowly, relishing the calming scent of chamomile while gazing at the window now clouded with the rain's mist.

It has been a year since Sherlock’s death, it hasn’t been easy. Not having him around. Dull. Lightless. But Mycroft has more things to do now. The things that kept him on the right path—a foundation was raised giving support and counsel to those who experiences levels of depression. It made him aware that there are a lot of people that needed that support—it earned him volunteers and doctors, and therapists and of course, colleagues. Because if it’s the last thing that he’ll do in honor of his mummy, and Sherlock—then he will take responsibility for it for the rest of his life. Drowning himself on the regrets that almost ate him, days after Sherlock’s death—he tried to stay focused on something. Building a foundation is a lot of work but with the help of the right people he was able to do it. Even if his regrets of not being able to see through his brother never faded, his thoughts and visions are clear now.  
Mycroft’s day started with Sherlock on that last morning, but through the foundation, it ended with him every day—as always. And that is how he will remember him.


End file.
